Tales from a Mountain Cave: Stories from Japan's Northeast

by Hisashi Inoue, Angus Turvill (Translator)

Overview

The sound of a trumpet across a Japanese mountain valley leads a young man to befriend a mysterious stranger. During repeated visits to the cave where the stranger has set up home, the young man learns about his past – in the mines, villages and ports of the region. The stranger’s hilarious, bawdy and touching narratives captivate the young man, but he begins to doubt their veracity. Finally, as the young man decides his own fate, the full truth about the stranger is revealed.

‘Tales from a Mountain Cave’ is a translation of Hisashi Inoue’s highly popular ‘Shinshaku Tono Monogatari’ (新釈遠野物語), set in the Kamaishi area of Iwate Prefecture, Northeast Japan. Kamaishi was devastated by the tsunami of March 2011, and royalties on sales of this book will be donated to post-tsunami community support projects.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9780857281463
Publisher:	Anthem Press
Publication date:	11/15/2013
Series:	Anthem Cosmopolis Writings
Sold by:	Barnes & Noble
Format:	eBook
Pages:	400
File size:	5 MB
Age Range:	18 Years

About the Author

Hisashi Inoue (1934–2010) was, in the words of Nobel Prize winner Kenzaburo Oe, one of the towering figures of contemporary Japan. A novelist, playwright, producer and scriptwriter, his awards include the Naoki Prize (1972), the Yomiuri Literary Prize (1979, 1981, 2010), the Japan SF Grand Prize (1981), the Seiun Award (1986), the Tanizaki Jun’ichiro Prize (1991), the Kikuchi Kan Literary Award (1999) and the Asahi Prize (2000).

Angus Turvill is an award-winning translator who currently teaches at Durham University, UK. His prize-winning translations include work by Kaori Ekuni and Natsuki Ikezawa (Shizuoka Grand Prize), Kuniko Mukoda (John Dryden), Osamu Dazai (J-Lit), and Nanami Kamon (Kurodahan). His other translations include work by Kiwao Nomura, Kiyoshi Shigematsu, Aoko Matsuda and Yasuhiro Yotsumoto.

Read an Excerpt

Tales from a Mountain Cave

Stories from Japan's Northeast

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By Hisashi Inoue, Angus Turvill

Wimbledon Publishing Company

Copyright © 1976 Hisashi Inoue
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-85728-146-3

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CHAPTER 1

In the Pot

Kunio Yanagita starts his famous Legends of Tono as follows: 'What I have written in this book was told to me by Mr Kyoseki Sasaki, a man of Tono. I transcribed it during Mr Sasaki's occasional visits to my house, starting in February 1909. Mr Sasaki is not a good talker but he is a man of sincerity, and I wrote down precisely the impressions I received from his words. I believe there may be hundreds of such stories in the Tono area and their dissemination is greatly to be desired. In villages still more remote than Tono, there must surely be countless legends of mountain spirits and mountain people – legends that the people of the plains will shudder to hear.'

Following Yanagita's example I shall start these Variations on the Legends of Tono as follows: All these stories were heard from an old man called Takichi Inubuse, who lives near Tono. I wrote them down during occasional visits to his cave starting in October 1953. Inubuse is a good talker, but there's something highly dubious about him, and I myself have a tendency to exaggerate, so nothing in the book can be relied on at all. I expect there are hundreds of stories like this around Tono. I have no particular wish to hear them, but I am sure that such tales of mountain spirits and mountain people may serve to tickle the people of the plains.

I first met Inubuse about twenty years ago when I was living in Kamaishi, a port town in Iwate Prefecture, an hour's journey from Tono by train. My mother ran a bar there and I had a room upstairs. I had recently come back to Kamaishi from Tokyo, where I had been studying literature at a private university. I had only been on the course a few months, but I found it dull and I had financial problems, so I decided to suspend my studies.

I visited the employment office in Kamaishi every day in search of suitable work, and after about a month an attractive-sounding job turned up at a new government sanatorium in the nearby mountains. The sanatorium was two hours' walk from Kamaishi in the direction of Tono. The pay was low, but with working hours from nine to five and no overtime I would have the evenings to myself. If I lived at my mother's place, accommodation and food would be free and I would be able to save most of my salary towards college fees. I could study in the evenings and apply to a government university, where the fees are lower. I would try for the medical department this time. In this optimistic frame of mind I applied for the job and was lucky enough to get it.

Initially it turned out to involve much heavier labour than I had anticipated. I had expected to be responsible for bookkeeping and to be wielding nothing bigger than a pen. But instead, on my first day, I was given an axe – my work for the autumn was to collect wood from the mountains as fuel for the sanatorium's boiler.

Not being used to an axe, my hands quickly grew sore. It was while I was blowing on a burst blister during my first lunch break that I suddenly heard the piercing note of a trumpet from the across the valley: it rang out as pure as a mountain stream. The trumpeter was highly accomplished – even I could tell that. I wondered who on earth it could be, playing the instrument out here in the middle of the mountains. I scanned the far side of the valley and noticed a dark hole in the hillside. Beside the hole was a human figure, and every so often the figure seemed to emit a flash of light. I guessed it must be the reflection of sunlight from the trumpet.

I was still listening intently when my lunch hour ended and the trumpet stopped. The figure disappeared into the hole. There was a distance of at least a hundred metres between us and I hadn't been able to see either the person's face or what type of clothes they wore.

How extraordinary! I thought as I returned to my work, I would never have expected to find such a cultivated person in the depths of the Tohoku mountains!

It wasn't just on my first day that the trumpet sounded. It rang out again the next day, and the day after that; it seemed to be a daily fixture. I couldn't identify the music precisely, but it was all classical European. Within two weeks my daily routine was firmly tied to that of the trumpeter. As soon as I heard the trumpet, I would put down my axe and open my lunch box; when the trumpet stopped I reached for my axe and stood up.

Autumn advanced and I grew used to my work. Even on a bad day I'd be gathering fifteen or sixteen bundles of fuel. In early November it rained a great deal and the mountains were often bathed in mist. On days like that my boss told me I could stay in the office and take it easy, but I put on a rubber raincoat and went out anyway. This impressed him. 'He works hard, that one,' I heard him say as I walked out the door. But it wasn't enthusiasm for work that sent me outside; I simply wanted to listen to the trumpet.

It had been drizzling all morning and the mist hung low over the valley. Towards lunchtime the rain grew heavier, and I decided that after I had listened to the trumpet I would go back to the office for the rest of the afternoon. In the meantime, I persisted with my awkward task of gathering rain-soaked firewood. When noon came, however, the trumpet did not sound. Worried that something might have happened to the trumpeter, I crossed the now deep, fast-flowing stream and tramped through sodden leaves up towards the hole on the far side of the valley. As I approached the cave I noticed purplish smoke drifting from the entrance.

'Hello?' I said nervously, standing outside.

'Who's that?' replied a quiet, rasping voice within.

'I'm from the sanatorium,' I said. 'I've been gathering firewood on the other side of the valley. Why aren't you playing your trumpet today?'

There was no reply.

'Aren't you well?' I asked.

'I suffer from neuralgia as winter approaches,' said the voice wearily, and the face of an old man appeared at the mouth of the cave. He was leaning forward through the entrance with one hand on a log pillar. He looked up at me.

Since he lived in a mountain cave, I had imagined he'd be very dirty, but actually he was clean and neat. His long face sat tidily above a warm padded jacket. On his chin was a trim salt-and-pepper beard. His mouth protruded and his lips were thick – from playing the trumpet, I guessed. His nose was large, round, and rather red – suggesting chilblains. There was a gentle twinkle in his narrow eyes. A ski hat was stretched over his tousled hair. Somehow he reminded me of a fox.

'I always enjoy listening to your trumpet, so I was worried when I didn't hear it today. I wondered if something had happened ...'

His eyes grew softer. 'That is very kind.'

'Well,' I said, 'as long as everything is okay ... Goodbye!'

As I walked away the old man called after me.

'Would you like some tea?'

I looked up at the sky. The rain had turned to sleet and the idea of a hot drink was very appealing. I followed the old man into his cave. And so began our acquaintance.

The inside of the cave was as clean and tidy as the man himself. It was quite spacious too – about twenty square metres. The walls were hidden by firewood, piled up to the ceiling on all sides. And just inside the entrance was a fire, kindling snapping and flames dancing upwards. The hearth was a square cut into the wooden floor. A lamp hung from the ceiling. At the back of the cave was the old man's bedding; the trumpet lay by his pillow.

'You're a very good trumpeter,' I said, sipping my tea. The cup's rim was chipped, as rough as the blade of a saw. 'I can't really judge, but you seem better than most.'

Inubuse laughed loudly.

'I'm glad you say that,' he said. 'I used to be a professional – I was lead trumpet in an orchestra in Tokyo.'

I looked at him in astonishment. He grinned sheepishly, observing my reaction. I was baffled. He was certainly elegant in appearance and manners, and he spoke educated Japanese. But why would the lead trumpet of a Tokyo orchestra live in the middle of the mountains?

'How about another cup?' he said, passing me the kettle, and as though reading my thoughts added:

'Do you want to know why I settled here?'

I nodded. I had plenty of time. With the sleet outside, I wouldn't have to work that afternoon.

'Quite some time ago,' he said '– it must have been two or three years before the Great Kanto Earthquake of 1923 – our orchestra came on a tour of the Tohoku region.'

He took a sip of tea and wet his lips. There was a faraway look in his eyes. I warmed my hands by the fire, waiting for his next words.

'It was a time when orchestras were not common, even in Tokyo, and we had a rapturous reception at every stage of the tour. Our last performance was at Ohashi Mine, farther up from here into the mountains. We played at the Miners' Hall, and after the concert went back to our accommodation in the staff quarters. The next day we were heading back to Tokyo – by foot down the mountain, by carriage to Tono, by bus to Hanamaki, and then by train. Once we were on the train we'd be back in Tokyo in no time. It being the last night, the orchestra – about thirty of us – was having a celebration, with sake kindly provided by the mining company. While we were enjoying ourselves, a company official appeared with a telegram. He said it was for me. I opened it, feeling very uneasy. My apprehension proved fully justified: "Wife dangerously ill," the telegram said. "Come home."

I forgot to tell you that a month earlier I had married my landlord's daughter. We had only been together a week when I left on tour. If we had been married for ten or twenty years I might not have behaved so rashly, but as it was I decided to leave straight away.

"I must leave immediately," I said to the man who had brought the telegram. "When I get down to the village I shall take a carriage to Tono. Would you be so kind as to write a note of introduction to the carriage owner?"

The man tried to stop me.

"It's dangerous to go down in the dark," he said. "There are still wolves in these mountains. They come out onto the road at night. And further up there are Mountain Men. If they catch you, you won't get back alive. Luckily for me, I've never come across one, but ..."

My colleagues as well did their best to persuade me to wait until morning.

"It's only natural to feel you can't stay here doing nothing," they said. "We understand that. But it'll be dangerous to go alone. Wait until tomorrow when we all go. You'll be a day later in Tokyo, but it'll be much safer."

I didn't listen. What if my wife were to die during that extra day? I had to reach her while she was still alive. Seeing me would make her happy – she might even recover. I had to go immediately.

I set off down the mountain at about nine p.m. I had my trumpet case tucked firmly under my left arm and in my right hand I held a lantern, which the official had lent me. It was a twelve-kilometre walk down a mountain path to the village.

It was a pitch-black, moonless night, and there was nothing to guide me but the lantern. After some two miles' descent, the lantern's flame suddenly died. I had no idea what to do. I didn't smoke, so I had no matches to relight it. But I realised there was no sense in wasting time, so I carried on through the darkness, carefully checking my foothold at each step. As I carried on walking, suddenly everything around me grew lighter. Snow was falling. Its brightness helped me see where I was putting my feet, so I walked swiftly on, hoping to make up lost time. But then a wind got up, whipping the snow through the air. Flakes the size of cherry-blossom petals swept towards me from all directions. People say snow is silent, but I could hear it: sa, sa, sa, kasa-kasa. I stared dumbfounded as millions of snowflakes swirled around me. I began to feel that rather than the snow falling, I myself was rising into the sky. I was terrified. I hurried blindly down the path, trying not to look upwards. Every so often I heard the blood-chilling howls of wolves in the distance. I made sure to go in the opposite direction – not only out of fear, but because I thought the village must be located away from the deep mountains where the wolves were sure to be. But then I noticed something strange: the path was getting narrower. It should be getting wider as I neared the village, but the further I walked the narrower it grew.

I was frantic. I looked at my watch. Both hands were pointing upwards – midnight. I had been walking for three hours; the distance to the village from the mine was twelve kilometres. The village lights should have been in sight by now, but there was no sign of the village at all. I shuddered. Fear clenched my guts. I was entirely lost. I stopped and tried to think, but the lack of movement only aggravated my disquiet. I walked aimlessly on, my shoulders heaving at each breath. I chose a direction at random and, throwing the useless lantern to one side, turned up the collar of my coat and walked straight on for a full thirty minutes.

There is nothing so deceptive as progress through snow. People think they're walking in a straight line, but most veer a little to the left or right and end up walking in a large circle back to where they started. That is exactly what happened to me. After walking for half an hour I noticed something dark against the unblemished whiteness of the snow. I reached down for it and was horrified to find it was the lantern I had earlier discarded. Utterly exhausted and dispirited I slumped down onto the snow.

"I can't go on," I thought. "I shall stay here and freeze to death."

My mouth was dry. I spooned snow up with my hands and crammed it into my mouth. For no particular reason I looked to my right. My throat contracted and involuntarily I spat out the snow. There was a light – not far away.

"That wasn't there before," I thought. "But whatever light it is, I'm saved!"

I waded knee-deep through the snow towards the light and before long I came to a house. The left half was in darkness but on the right a warm orange glow shone through the tightly closed shoji screen. I crossed the tiny garden and approached the house.

"Who's that?" said a young woman's voice inside.

"I am a traveller in distress," I said desperately. "I've lost my way in the snow. Please let me spend the night!"

The screen door clattered open.

A lovely woman of twenty-six or so appeared. She looked ill-nourished, but there was something refined about her.

"How terrible for you," she said, kneeling on the veranda, bowing gently.

I looked through the open screen to the room inside. In the middle of the wooden floor was a hearth surrounded by seating mats. A fire was burning and above the fire was a large, steaming pot.

"I am very sorry to ask," I said, "but could you possibly give me something to eat as well? Of course, I shall pay you."

The woman knelt straight and tense.

"I should very much like to help you," she said, "but I can say nothing without asking my husband."

"And where is he ...?"

"He is in the woods at the moment. He is a very jealous man. I cannot imagine what he might do if I were to let a man in to stay the night without asking him first."

"Well, of course if I was a lover he'd be angry. But you and I have never met before. I am lost and came here by chance. I'm sure he'd understand if you explained."

The woman shook her head.

"He would certainly not understand. I am very sorry, but please could you wait outside until he returns."

The woman went back inside, but she didn't fully close the screen behind her – a small concession to me, I suppose. Delicious smells wafted out from the cooking pot.

After a while the woman stood up and went out to the back of the house. She was gone for some time. My hunger was growing – all I'd had since midday was some sake and a piece of dried fish. Eventually, I ran up to the veranda, took off my shoes and stole in towards the hearth, desperate to sneak a mouthful of whatever was in the pot. I lifted the lid and looked inside. I froze with horror – in the pot was a baby, simmered to a deep shade of purple.

"Quite a surprise for you, I suppose!" It was the woman's voice. She had quietly returned and was now standing close by in the unlit half of the house. There was a hatchet in her hand.

"Please forgive me!" I said. "I meant no harm. I'm just very hungry."

The woman slowly raised the hatchet above her head.

"I'm so sorry!" I said. "I'll leave straight away. I won't tell anyone of what I saw."

The woman swung the hatchet down. A thick piece of firewood split in two on the earthen floor at her feet. She looked at me and smiled.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Tales from a Mountain Cave by Hisashi Inoue, Angus Turvill. Copyright © 1976 Hisashi Inoue. Excerpted by permission of Wimbledon Publishing Company.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Table of Contents

Translator’s Introduction; In the Pot; House up the River; Pheasant Girl; Horse; Fox; Story Seller; Lake; Eel; Fox Hole; Glossary and Notes